


England Would Fall

by SherlockianDinosaur



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Drama, Gen, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 03:00:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockianDinosaur/pseuds/SherlockianDinosaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had been out of 221b for years, but after a trip down to the landlady's flat, the place begins to feel empty for the first time.</p><p>A look into the meeting and goodbyes of Sherlock & Mrs. Hudson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	England Would Fall

The heart of 221b had long moved out, brain left behind with stacks of books and papers and beakers that ranged from barely four months to twenty-odd years old. Clients still came and went, the aging master’s practice strong as ever, even as the first signs of a weakening body began to wear on him. At fifty-eight he was still slender and leanly muscled, prepared to sprint and climb as needed though he was forced to ignore when his knees protested the pressure. Dark hair remained save greying streaks along his temples which did nothing to his impression save make him look all the wiser. His mind still raced and the light still shone in steely eyes when a crime proved worth unravelling and a criminal worth investigating. Bad sleeping habits and a schedule unaccustomed to regular meals took a greater toll on him as years passed, but it wasn’t yet enough for him to bother changing his ways. It was only transport, after all.

The doctor visited when he could. Children and business always seeming to keep him busy. It was good, really. John deserved it. Still, Sherlock couldn’t help but feel the harsh churn in his stomach each time he watched his friend’s greyed head disappear out the door as he had the day he’d moved across town. As certain as he was that he could see John’s bittersweet nostalgia each time he descended the stairs, the detective would never say anything. He simply marvelled at how flawlessly emotion could be preserved.

Company came from clients and colleagues and familial visits that hadn’t changed in two decades beyond the move from fat jokes to balding ones. More importantly, company came from the woman downstairs. Her joints ached most days and baking had long become troublesome with shaky hands and worsened vision. She’d finally lost interest in dating after Phil passed away four years before and when she claimed not to be the housekeeper it was more out of habit than anything else, as keeping up after Sherlock’s messes had become difficult years prior. Despite it all, she remained Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock ventured down to her flat most mornings, glad to accept a cuppa and the odd pasty or throw on the kettle and hand her her soothers on days when she didn’t quite feel up to it. She fussed over black eyes and broken fingers and scrapes that came with Sherlock’s job and the detective rolled his eyes but let her. After so many days without hearing from him she would still drag herself upstairs to check on him. Occasionally Sherlock could be caught in a cheerful mood and they’d chat until one fell asleep.

They made do with what they had. They took care of each other.

She seemed tired and Sherlock responded with late night Gershwin and Ellington and Paganini as he always did. Her waves of sleeplessness always passed after several days and if he sat on the stairs up to 221b she could hear soft strokes over perfectly tuned strings through their Victorian walls.

The next morning,  the consulting detective padded barefoot down the stairs towards her flat, rubbing at sleepy eyes and giving a heavy morning yawn. Absent of her living room, Sherlock took it upon himself to fill the kettle for two, tapping out several pills from an organised clan of bottles on the counter as it steeped. The medications on her saucer, Sherlock gave a half knock but pushed into her bedroom before an answer came.

Two tea cups hit the floor as Sherlock rushed to her bedside.

  


_It seemed like he’d been running for hours, but Sherlock knew it couldn’t be longer than a few minutes. The streets weren’t familiar enough for shortcuts he might have found through London, but he was quick and despite Florida heat, was confident that he could catch up._

_Suddenly things were going fast. He got a hand on the culprit, they grappled one on one. The knife appeared. Pain registered in his side, his fingers. A cool blade pushed against his neck. Standers-by backed away. Sherlock met the eyes of a woman in the car beside him. The moment of hesitation remained the only instant to drag before the car lurched forward. She steered the red Cadillac at Sherlock’s opponent and everything went black._

_Light was hard through his eyelids and Sherlock cringed against it. The dull ache in his head was just about worsened by the painkillers that were almost certainly being pumped into him. He flexed his right hand experimentally, then his left. The IV tube in his arm rubbed where it was taped to his skin, but stretching his arms a bit, he at least found relief in the fact that he wasn’t cuffed this time. He groaned as he tried to adjust his position in the bed._

_“Ooh!”_

_Sherlock froze._

_“Were you coming around?”_

_The woman’s voice was soft and cautious. A nurse, he thought first, but retracted it immediately as a nurse would certainly have begun trying to more fully wake him.  Stranger still, he realised, she was English. He chanced to open his eyes. Probably well into her forties, the woman opposite him had her hands pressed to her heart, left ring finger bearing a gold band and soft focus in her eyes. Sherlock grunted again, blinking in an attempt to clear his vision._

_She gave a relieved smile in return, edging her chair closer. “I thought you’d be out for hours longer,” she said. “You gave us all a scare, you know.”_

_Sherlock could do little more than furrow his brow and let out a few confused syllables._  

_The woman tutted her response. “Hush now, I’ll get a doctor in here. Just sit tight.”_

_With a squeeze of his bicep, she stood and made her way towards the door. Still in Florida, Sherlock guessed as he caught sight of the thermometer on the wall. The whir of the air conditioner was loud to his aching head. Vague memories of the chase began to fade into his conscious thought. The flash of the knife. The red Cadillac. The woman who understood immediately what she needed to do to keep Sherlock alive._

_Lost in thoughts and slow deductions, Sherlock drifted out of consciousness before the woman returned._

 

Beneath the detective’s fingers her skin was cold. His thumb dug for a pulse but found only stillness. For a long time Sherlock knelt at the side of her bed, jaw clenched hard enough for his teeth to ache and brow creased in a deep furrow. The incredible focus of his eyes equalled that of robotic deductions, but the shine over them was wet with humanity.

Her features hung limp on her face. Expressionless, unfeeling. Sherlock loathed the cold creature before him  for resembling her. Mrs. Hudson would have clicked her tongue at the lost tea but lowered her chin and offered a forgiving smile. The body in front of him did nothing. It had no sympathy. Pulling his fingers from her wrist, he shifted her hand into his. Thin, warm fingers squeezed her wrinkled cool ones. Again. She should have squeezed back, but she didn’t.

Suddenly he hoped she’d heard him playing the night before. Without a chance to say anything, to thank her, to remind her the difference she made to him, the detective liked to think he’d given her that much.

Sherlock bent his forehead down to meet her knuckles, long steady breaths rising in his back. As another long minute passed, the detective saw that his other hand had wound up clutching the shoulder of her nightie. Smoothing down now-crumpled fabric, Sherlock spotted the tremor in his hand which looked not unlike those Mrs. Hudson had developed, though they occurred for a much different, deeply despised reason.

He couldn’t say how long he sat alone in the room, but at the end of it his knees ached and cold hands were smeared with salty tears he might not even deny — if anyone deserved them, it was her.

With a shaking breath he let her hand down the the mattress, turning to sit on the floor with his back against the bed as he reached in his pocket for his phone. There is a business to death, after all. There were coroners and funeral homes and servicemen. He supposed it would be left to him to inform her remaining living sister.

He phoned John.

  


_“Mrs. Hudson will do,” the woman said, tipping her chin down in mock scolding as he asked for her first name._

_Sherlock found himself smirking back at her, pushing his fork through mushy hospital food he didn’t care to eat. She made a small noise of disapproval and the aspiring detective looked up to see her eyeing his plate with pursed lips. He scowled, feeling oddly defensive about his eating habits. “I’m not hungry.”_

_“I’m not surprised looking at that mess,” Mrs. Hudson answered. Sherlock watched the stiffness in her back, the familiar jerking movements taking a second to register in his mind. “I’ll bring you up something first thing tomorrow.”_

_He rolled his eyes, pushing against the mattress to sit up a bit straighter and he made a face when she leaned forward to readjust the blankets again. The pity coming off her was making him unbearably uncomfortable. “There’s no need to feel guilty,” he mumbled. “I couldn’t have asked for a better solution than having him knocked out by your front bumper.”_

_“If I could have missed you, I might feel better, dear.” She put a hand out to rub up and down his blanket-covered shin._

_His skin tingled at the kind touch. Very rarely did anyone find reason to put a hand on him without the intention of pain and he caught himself relishing the moment and thinking that maybe her actions came less from pity than genuine affection. It seemed mad given their interactions thus far, but people were mad anyway. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed on her watch but it disappeared beneath her other hand as she twisted at her wedding ring. He turned his eyes back up to her face. “I’ve had worse.”_

_“That doesn’t make it hurt any less.” There was an odd sense of wisdom in her eyes and Sherlock cocked his head._

_It only took a moment for it all to click together. Her back was stiff due to injured ribs, those were obvious enough. The skin beneath her watch was bruised and Sherlock finally associated it with a too-tight grip on Mrs. Hudson’s wrist. She appeared acclimated to violence and understood the pain of injury._

_Sherlock’s eyes darted down to where she twisted her wedding ring on her finger._

_“You should leave him.”_

_She looked shocked at first. Guilty. Embarrassed. Sherlock nearly commented on how ridiculous that was as a reaction. It wasn’t as if it was her fault what he did to her._

_“How could you tell? Who have you spoken to?” She looked suddenly afraid and Sherlock leaned forward a bit, curious and almost apologetic. He explained himself. The signs on her body, in her demeanour._

_She shook her head. “You can’t say a thing, dear.”_

_“I won’t have to.”_

 

 

“I’m fine, John.” Sherlock watched himself straighten his tie in the mirror, glancing over his shoulder’s reflection where he could see the doctor’s doubt. “ _You’re_ fine, are you not?”

John sighed, shaking his head as he looked to the floor. “Never mind, Sherlock. Get your jacket on, we should go.”

The detective nodded, smoothing hands down the front of his shirt before reaching for his jacket and pulling it snugly around his shoulders. John held a long Belstaff out — the fourth of it’s kind Sherlock had owned — and before long they were out the door.

It had been several months since they’d managed more than a few hours together, but Sherlock couldn’t say he was glad for the opportunity. He was, however, grateful to have John at his side. The steady form of the army doctor would never cease to serve as great comfort. He was transparent in his attempted distractions, but Sherlock didn’t bother giving him a hard time, indulging in the idle conversation and questions until the car stopped and awkward silence fell.

Sherlock looked across at the funeral home but made no move to get up. He knew what was coming. He’d had say in the casket and the location and the schedule, though he did admit that he’d let John take most of such duties for himself. All that aside, he was reluctant to step out of the warmth of the cab. There was a comforting weight on his shoulder and he flicked his eyes away from the pastel-coloured building for just a moment to see John had edged over and reached out for him. His lined face remained as expressive as it always had, mouth poised just-so, eyes open and readable. The detective let out a breath.

 _I’m fine._ Sherlock thought, but he didn’t say it. “This is stupid,” he complained instead. “The ceremony of it. She hates being fussed over.” _Hated._

“I know.” The hand on his shoulder gave a short squeeze. “It’ll be okay.”

Stone-faced, Sherlock nodded. In his head he was certain he gave a reply, but nothing came out. He was busy noticing the shoes of the man taking his smoking break outside the home that was to hold Mrs. Hudson’s wake. I was a good thing he took it outside, Sherlock thought. She always complained about people smoking indoors. 

Once they’d made it in and dealt with the business side of things, they were left in an open room rowed with matching couches facing up to the bier and the open casket. The beginning of the evening had Sherlock avoiding the body like it was a contagion. He’d already seen her dead, but this was different, somehow. He spent a long time watching people filter in and out, though every deduction he made told him that half of them were strangers to her.

John hosted for a lot of the evening, lightening the mood just a bit with stories that got people reminiscing the way these things were apparently supposed to go. A few times people approached the detective, guessing his identity.

“She spoke of you constantly,” said one older woman with hands that said they joined Mrs. Hudson for cards.

“I thought you were her son for years,” another gave. “I think she might have too.”

As if Sherlock was unaware. 

Finally John had a free moment and Sherlock watched him approach the front of the room, hands clasped in from on him as he stood before her. With John there, Sherlock stomached the idea of venturing forward a bit more easily. Still his step hesitated as he fell in line beside the doctor. Her featured no longer sagged as they had when he found her, but Sherlock grimaced at how her lips puckered strangely and half her face was still sunken a bit more than the other. Over and over he thought he caught her stomach rising with the intake of air, but he knew it was simply the bizarre absence of movement that tricked his brain. 

His throat thickened and he could hear deep, not-quite-steady breaths from John beside him. Sherlock shut his eyes as they began to sting with memories and apprehension. 

Sherlock wished she would smile.

  


_“Oh, Sherlock,” she cooed, grabbing him by the shoulders and looking over torn clothes and bloodied nose. “What on Earth have you gotten yourself into?”_

_Sherlock waved off her fussing, but she clicked her tongue, insisting on reaching up to his bruised cheek. The damage on him was minimal as far as he was concerned. Death had been a rather real possibility, but the possibly broken nose, re-located shoulder, bruised ribs and broken thumbs felt like little price to pay to be able to tell Mrs. Hudson what he’d done. “He’s being tried for murder tomorrow.”_

_Mrs. Hudson froze, unwilling to believe his words. “Wh- Sherlock, is he…?”_

_The young detective grinned. “He won’t lay a finger on you again.”_

_The next thing he knew she’d pulled him into a hug and with short inexperienced hesitation, Sherlock’s arms came up to hold her too. Mrs. Hudson squeezed a bit tighter around her waist, but the young detective could feel her flinch as she pressured her cracked ribs._

_The moment lasted longer than Sherlock expected, but he didn’t care to break it away. After three weeks of trying to figure out how to nail him, there deserved to be some celebration and the embrace was as good as any. He shifted his posture, bending down slightly so things were a bit more comfortable. Her breath was warm against his chest as she exhaled his name._

_Her shoulders heaved a few times, but she remained mostly under control until she pulled back, revealing a face lined with shining tear-trails and a smile the detective couldn’t help but mirror._

_“Let’s get you fixed up, dear.”_

  
  


The cab ride back from the cemetery felt hours long. The last four days had all dragged and it seemed like ages since he’d bid her goodnight and resolved to play for her and wandered down to her flat the next morning in blissful ignorance of what he’d find. What he would give to feel that again…

John claimed parental obligations and bid short farewell after the burial, but Sherlock knew better. The doctor’s clenching left fist and tightened jaw, however, suggested something closer to a desperate need for distraction that Sherlock very well understood.

So he pulled up to Baker Street alone. Passing a tenner up to the driver, he stepped straight-faced onto the pavement and approached 221b. 

_“This one?” Sherlock asked, calculating construction, size, price before even stepping into the door._

_Mrs. Hudson beamed, first at the Victorian doorway, then at the young detective. “Lovely, isn’t it?”_

_“Absolutely.”_

_“Come stay any time you like.”_

_“I will,” Sherlock assured, shin dropping as a closed-lipped smile peeked into his stoicism._

_“I’ll give you a tour, come now, wipe your shoes. I’m not your housekeeper!” She hurried excitedly up the step, twisting the key in the lock to reveal a warm, narrow hallway with pale wallpaper. “You’d like the upstairs one, I think. Take a look, will you?”_

Sherlock mounted the seventeen stairs, fingertips dragging along the wall until he pushed in the door to flat B. Stepping in through the kitchen, he dropped two sets of keys on the table and stepped out of shoes. By the time he reached the sitting room his hands were already pulling at his tie.

Standing in the centre of the room, between mismatched armchairs, Sherlock let his arms drop to his side.

_The aged vaguely floral patterns and tall windows made the airy room feel larger even than it was. Hardwood floors clicked against the bottoms of his shoes and the not-quite-detective took several steps in, turning around to admire the spacious kitchen with wide eyes. The previous owners had clearly not been much for cooking and Sherlock was glad enough for that. It left the kitchen spotless enough for experiments and Sherlock couldn't help but think of how he would squeeze all his equipment into the cabinets. Running his fingers along the mantle, Sherlock stepped up to the high window, watching the street below. “It’s fantastic.”_

_“Do you think?”_

_“Obviously.”_

Looking the old skull in the eye, Sherlock sneered at it. Once again it had become his only companion. 

His eyes lingered over the marks on the mantelpiece where he’d made a habit of stabbing through letters. They’d been varnished and polished and rubbed at, but there was only so much one could do. That in mind his eyes moved to the place above the couch where the yellow face had been redrawn and redecorated on at least three occasions. The paper covering the wall around it was brighter where it hadn’t yet faded and Sherlock couldn’t quite smirk at the mark’s permanence the way he had in the past.

He dropped into his angular armchair, legs stretched out before him, slouched far enough down to rest his head on the back cushion and stare at the ceiling.

_“Is that a second bedroom?” Sherlock asked, peering up the stairs._

_“And bath,” the woman gave proudly, hands clasped together at her chest as she looked around._

_Already he’d thought her offer incredibly generous. The airy parlour and high windows and full kitchen, everything already half furnished and painted and finished. The addition of the second bedroom only furthered his stance. Flat ‘b’ should have been making her three times the payment she offered and he hesitated. Evidently she was more apt in reading him then he’d predicted._

_“It’s no trouble, Sherlock. I owe you more than a few months rent.”_

_Swallowing, the young detective’s demeanour broke, showing genuine surprise before melting into something soft and grateful. “Mrs. Hudson-”_

_“Don’t you dare,” she scolded lightly, pointing a finger into his chest._

_Mouth twisting into a smile, Sherlock brought an arm around her shoulder, pulling her into a half embrace. “I’ll be back, okay?”_

_Leaning demurely into his chest she nodded. “I know, dear.”_

The world’s only consulting detective found himself with the heels of his palms in squeezed shut eyes. Alone in 221b, he didn’t bother to right himself. For a long moment he sat taking deep breaths, pushing back memories and apprehensions.

Finally he let out a long sigh. His cheeks were dry but his eyes were red as he picked up his violin and swept up to stand at the tall windows. With the instrument poised against his neck, Sherlock watched over his city. Cars rolled by, a couple laughed down the block, the telly was on across the street.

He’d once thought all of England would fall if she ever left. Now she had and the world had no right to keep turning.

 


End file.
